Black

Night

silence

darkness

are you alone?

a 

small voice in her 

head asked 

her.

she 

looked around

straining her ears

eyes

for any sign

of 

shifting

shapes

snores

breathing

nope.

yes

alone

window

curtains

drawn

night

midnight

door 

closed

where are the others?

inky 

black fear

spread

like a 

bucket

of tar

thick

viscous

unrelenting

clutching

at her 

heart

choking 

breath

sinking 

stomach

settling

to 

the very 

bottom

of 

a dread filled

heart

an alien 

scream

raised

the hair

on her

forehead

an emotion

so 

strong

she could not 

recognize

her own

voice

sound.

Admonition

Girls
do not laugh out loud
like this.
They do not
walk with
their feet thumping the
floor
like that.
You
do not smile
and display
your gums
got,it?
You
should
not ride
bicycles
it is
such a
'guy thing '
to do.
And whoever
asked
you
to read
literature
which
might
corrupt
your very
soul
cover up
your
bosom
for heaven's
sake
be seen
not heard.
Do not
even
think
of writing
what is it
in
aid
of ?
Just paint
sunflowers
like that
'ear-less '
guy
do
not hear
bad things
bapu said
dim
your
senses
and brilliance
you
might
end
up
blinding
someone
dammit.
i should
not
hear
you
screaming
even
in your nightmares
you
must
smile sweetly
at the
bhootji
and thank
him
for having graced
your
dreams
with
his awesome
presence.

The Red (K)night

"Sab saale *******,

"Eeh, chup, saare so rahe hain. You too should go to sleep."

Nose was blown noisily, red splotches on the white tiled wall, kidney tray,red goo trickling down matted beard, even as it thickened into dark red clots.

Miss M was livid .

"Kitni baar bola hai? Don't blow your nose."

'Yaar, thoda sa paani de do. One sip please. '

Miss M stood resolutely at the entrance to the cubicle. Arms determinedly folded, staring silently.

He, all of six foot something, bearded, loose long hair flying in all directions, bleeding in the worst possible way, from ears, nose, mouth, stared back and lowered his gaze,pulling plaintively and futilely at his restrained hands,bandaged firmly to the sides of the bed.

That evening , this huge sardar soldier was brought in from a desert exercise, a careless poking out of the head, and a swivelling barrel of a mounted gun hit him on the temple.He fell down unconscious and was brought to the hospital, screaming abuses, violent and bleeding horribly from every orifice.He was examined and after the perfunctory tests , was shifted to the ICU.He was on observation, nil orally, and not to blow his nose(an instruction which he disobeyed with impunity).

It was 2245hrs and he had passed red coloured fluid , as urine, twice, and was practically covered in red. All attempts to clean him up ended in a nought, as he would promptly blow his nose ,or gurgle up clots and spit it out on the sheets/tiled wall behind. So , it was decided that cleaning could wait as we prayed for him to "settle down", which he seemed not to, any time soon.

Interspersed with the choicest of abuses in Hindi/Punjabi would be the constant chanting of "Waheguru,Waheguru". Some times reaching the pitch of a shout , the name of God in all its pure sublime form. As the fog of hypoxia clouded his senses, he continued to oscillate between profanities and chanting the God's name.

All along he continued to bleed, large, heart-breaking and scary quantities of blood gushed forth. Only two pints of fresh blood had been infused plus some IV fluids. Scared to her wit's end, Miss M called the DMO twice. Twice in the night he came, and stood , helplessly watching, from the entrance to the cubicle, too scared of  what met his eyes, to even talk to the blathering , blubbering, cursing and chanting person inside.

Morning dawned, to the collective hum of beeping monitors, bustling activity, cleaning up of patients, dispensing of medicines, drawing of blood, setting up of IV, making beds, tidying of hair and last minute rush to make fresh I/O charts, completing of reports.

In all this hub-bub, no one noticed that the sardar had quietened down,allowing the nurse to clean him, Miss M to draw blood for samples,even to the extent of helping the staff change his attire and blood soaked bed linen.

After a while , it was noticed that the sardar had actually stopped bleeding. This was nothing short of a miracle!!With the medical fraternity at their wits 'end ( an inconclusive dural tear was the unsatisfactory diagnosis written in his case sheet)

When the day duty staff came to take over, they found it difficult to believe that the sedate sardar clad all in white, sitting cross legged atop his bed, hair neatly combed into a bun,greeting all the sisters, is the same violent man who was admitted with uncontrolled bleeding the previous afternoon.

Whether the Gods took kindly to his non-stop chanting, or he had some good karma from his past -life, or it was a "self-limiting hemorrhagic episode"(as we were asked to refer to it ), we will never know. All we know is that he became a celebrity of sorts. He was questioned, examined, tested, re-questioned, re-examined, and re-tested; to no satisfactory conclusion. His case was presented and represented in various air-conditioned auditoriums, where doctors of various disciplines would present conflicting opinions and scratch their heads to come to a "logical conclusion".

What we, the nursing staff, witnessed that night was a miracle, no less; and we are content to leave it at that,in all our illogical faith.

The Deaf Mute Autistic and Mad (till she can't be labelled any further) girl

She ran with 
the wind,
hair streaming
behind
a
cascade of 
silk
her heart beating
fast
for no known reason
dashing
against 
walls
colliding
with
pillars

life's
energy 
exploding
forth
in
a glorious
random 
outburst
of exuberance

She 
was 
also known 
to smile
at 
strangers
(a dangerous
thing 
to do - she 
was  cautioned)

Laughing
her head  
off
at every 
sentence
she would
brush
caution 
away

pat 
a stray dog
and 
walk 
about 
barefoot

Frowning
people
shake
their heads
in collective
consternation

Wagging
fingers
and
tongues
never
deterred her
and 
she smiled
sweetly
for 
all 
to see

her 
insanity.

A Night of Terror

It was a hot , humid , summer night. Power supply had played truant and the entire village was plunged into the darkness.One odd kerosene lamp, braving the dark, would flit like a firefly from some window some where. It was still , not a leaf moved.
Vaasudev, the night watchman, hunched on the terrace, with his back  to the cool low wall, was tired of swatting flies and mopping his brow with his sodden gamcha , when he gave a start. What he saw beyond the dark, endless stretch of the paddyfield, brought his heart to his mouth.
Bare footed, he bounded down the  narrow stairs, three at a time, breathless, his heart bumping against his chest.
'Maalik!Maalik!" the sheer urgency in Vaasu's voice, brought the Grand old man to the door in an instant.
Leaning forward,he whispered something into his master's ears.
'Are you sure?'.He replied, panic building up.
Vaasu nodded, panting and mopping his brow.
The Grand Old woman was summoned up quietly and the situation explained.
She nodded, totally in the loop, quick comprehension dawning on her wrinkled face.
Vaasudev disappeared to bring reinforcements. The Grand old man rummaged in the back of his wooden almirah  till his hand touched the reassuring coolness of the metal pipe.

A steady stream of villagers entered the hallowed portals of the landlords house, silently emerging with a small sleeping form in their arms.The womenfolk of the house hold were roused, and jewelleries removed from the person,quietly tied into small cloth bundles. These were quickly, noiselessly, buried in freshly dug holes, in the warm moist corners of the vast and dark cowshed. Some startled cows stopped chewing cud, and gave an enquiring mooo. All lamps were extinguished, and the sole lantern had its wick lowered to minimum.


Women and children ensconsed in safe houses, the old man sat on his watch, on the porch, on a rickety chair, his trusted hunting rifle across his knees. Other trust worthy villagers sat around, hunched in the darkness, armed with lathis, spades, and some with sickles.It was pitch dark, and night was thick with fear . No one even dared to think of chewing khaini(tobacco).


The entire night was spent in the watch. No one yawned, or moved. As the first light of the dawn fell on the village, the old man was sent by his men to catch up on his sleep. Vaasudev and few others kept a wary lookout till mid morning from the shade of the granary on the terrace.Others retired.Few ferried back the kids(still fast asleep, and wholly unaware of last nights' goings-on), women trudging in wearily, gratefully back. The old woman promised the Goddess of war of special offerings. A days wages and new clothing to all those involved in the rescue effort.

What Vaasudev saw on the fateful night was a steady stream of 'chorbattis'(torchlight)on the path to the house, via the paddyfields. In the dim light of distant' chorbattis', he also saw something which made his hair stand on end. He saw the unmistakable glint of polished metal. It was an year of bad crops and the crops standing in the fields were not ready for harvesting, yet. Thievery and dacoity were rampant. Hence the watch. Plus the news of arrival of old man's family from the town, with wads of cash(or so it was percieved) and jewellery -laden females(another over-rated rumour)

The thwarted robbery attempt would soon earn Vaasudev the rude epithet of a person who 'imagines things'(though he would vehemently deny this)and the watch on the roof would be replaced by his son-Keshudev(another name for lord krishna).

Pishimaa

Pitter-patter, the first raindrops fell from a rapidly darkening sky.
"Pishimaa, brishti podchche"(it is raining, auntie) someone's panic stricken voice called out.
At the coast of the mighty Ganges, weather could be as fickle as the mood of an elephant in' musth'.
Within matter of minutes, a sunny weather was replaced by thundering clouds,a gray sky cover and stiff breeze which threatened to blow away Pishimaa's billowing saree.
We had come to the Kali-temple at the coast , with its mammoth statue of the fearsome Goddess, crimson tongue hanging out of a shiny black face, body covered with full length, gigantic garlands of red and gold.
Now we had to get back home.
The breeze , hitherto pleasant, swiftly turned into a raging, roaring wind, swirling dust-leaves-pooja flowers-raindrops into a spiralling vortex.
The' panda'(priest) swiftly placed his stool, box of offerings and plate of frankinscence inside,said three namoahs(salutations)in quick succession ,locked the temple door, and beat a hasty retreat, gathering his dhoti folds in one hand and fumbling with a rebellious umbrella in the other.
'Ebaar ki?'(what now?)
We all turned to face Pishimaa.
'Bojjat kothakar'(the b*****d). Pishimaa thought nothing of swearing at a holy man on the holy grounds.Rapidly falling raindrops had already soaked her thin saree. We had one umbrella between five of us, four of us kids, and Pishimaa."He has locked us out , or we could have taken shelter in the temple."
'Dont worry. Together, we will make it. Haath dhoro(hold hands),everybody.'
'Now, dont look up, bend your head down, shut your eyes, and walk straight ahead.'
She smiled a reassuring smile, revealing paan-stained dentures, rivulets of rainfall coursing down her swarthy face.Plus the firm determination in her eyes, and we could be staring at the Goddess herself.
'Joi Maa Kaali'
Some one shrieked in pure ecstacy,and the rest quickly followed suit .
'Joi Maa kali'
So a pathetic group of stragglers emerged from the green canopy of the temple , holding hands, plastered wet,ploughing through in a V -formation(like migrating geese) braving sleet, and occasional burst of fierce wind slapping against them. Pishimaa led the way, being the adult, we kids clinging to her bangled hands like limpets.
The lone umbrella had freed itself from the grasp of one of us, after a brief and futile struggle, and was now merrily floating above the churning, grey ,frothy Ganges , serenading the trumpeting clouds .
With occasional chants of' Joi Joggonnnath' and 'joi maa kali' the group winded its way, through the concrete path lining the  wooden floored, British-made bungalows; Past the stately Officer's Club (dating back to 1910), the newly made three floored presidential suites,past the rusting wrought-iron gates of a massive , mysterious, creeper choked Railway godown(the gates jangled noisily, numerous ghost stories about this place filled our hearts with dread, )We held Pishimaa's wet slippery hands a bit tighter.Past the fresh water tap,a scene of daily commotion amongst servants, to finally reaching 13C, our seven storied block,where Pishimaa lived on 3rd floor and we on the 2nd. Things became trickier here as the banging, abandoned windows of the passageways constantly rained shards of broken glass on the passersby downbelow.Now aided with the rain, thunder and gusty wind, added to tightly shut eyes,there was no other way than to make a dash for it.
Which we did and landed home, soaked to skin, having had a time of our lives; to a rousing welcome from worried sick parents; fussing over with towels and tea.
Onu Pishimaa was our neighbour, and a confidante` to everyone. She would be there with sound advise and  sweet as rosogolla smile when my brother's bulk broke the master bed, when we had scarily high fever, when someone had teenage angst, when my mother was hospitalised.Practically, in every difficult moment of our lives.
She was also the Chief Matron of the Railway hospital, and a gazzetted officer.
She hailed from Medinipore district of West Bengal. Braving ridicule at her humble origins, she made it to the very top of the ladder through grit,hard work and wisdom.
She never married, didnot ever have a family of her own(so to speak); but her spacious flat would be bursting at seams with relatives from her village, her widowed sister, her elder brother's four kids, her youngest brother,their pots of crabs (from the village ponds) , pet ducks, all lived in her home and heart.
Her real beauty lay in her generosity. In the later years, so we heard, she even called her aged and ailing mother to live with her.
Two of these kids were married off from her home, the two sons were employed in the railways and her siblings continued to stay with her, even when she retired.
She was one of the first to own a TV in the building , and all were welcome to see Chitrahaar, hear news, watch movies while being generously plied with hot snacks from her kitchen.One of the memories is of watching "I love lucy" at seven in the morning, and sharing pishimaa's toast and egg breakfast as she got ready for work in a small, agarbatti- scented room full of sai-baba photographs.
She had to work harder in a private nursing home , after retirement, to keep up with the spiralling expenses of her' family'. The night shift duties(something she had not done during her administrative years in the Railways) finally took their toll. Battling with persistent cough, she was found to have cardiac-failure.
Finally, it was time to bid goodbye to a very full and busy life.
When the priest at the crematorium asked, Who is the son?,( for the last rites)
There were four-five contenders.
They all had tears in their eyes, and they all looked like her, short, dark, with glistening, determined eyes.
None of them was her' son' or probably all were.
 The smoke billowed heavenward, on huge gathering,a Kalighat temple full of people.
'Vaasudhaiv kutumbakam'(the universe is my kin)

What I overheard in a hotel restroom.

Shuffling of feet , followed by a sharp blowing of the nose.
A muffled whimper tells  that the person is weeping.
The door opens with a bang and someone charges in, riding on a Chanel-scented wave. "Bittu!!!'You are ruining your makeup. woh bhi us khadoos ki baat par?(that too on a remark by an a*****e)".
Frank wailing from the other end.
'Mammaaa!! what to do? Anuj will never love me, he will nevvver forgive me(emphatic shaking of  bling covered head/body;noisy rustling of crisp silk)ooohhh, hai!!!!"
More frantic nose-blowing.
Copious amounts of tissue hastily pulled from the dispenser.
'Oh god! your makeup!".
Handbags are hurriedly opened,shut, reopened and re-shut.
"So what, everyone has a past. The old bag chose this moment to open his besharam mouth"
More swinging of the doors, more rustling of silk.All sorts of fragrances make their way in, mingle and sit heavy on the hysterically charged air.
More sympathizers have poured in , to comfort the person crying.
'All are asking for you.'
'The wedding has stalled. Papa has vowed never to talk to bade mamaji.'
'What was the need to talk about pappu,everyone knows he has failed B.Com twice'
'That too in such loud whispers'.
The wail reaches a shrieking crescendo.
'Chup ho ja. people will hear.'
'Here, let me help with the mascara'.
' He Bhagwaan sab thik kar dena'
'Mame ki toh...'.
'Leave it Bitto. Anuj is cool, he is smiling. Sitting there , waiting for you'.
'Ab toh aaja'
The overworked door swings and hits the wall with a loud thud.
Someone heavy and male enters.
Total silence, except a broken Paaapa from the crier.Others rustle away silently.
'Why are you crying?'
Sniff
'Did Anuj say anything to mamjis remark?'
Sniff sniff
'Come, come. Dont be a baby,no one is to say anything'.
'Chal beta.'
Slow rustle and heavy footfall gradually fade away.